A Book of 

Vassar Verse 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 






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A BOOK 

OF 

VASSAR VERSE 


REPRINTS FROM 


THE VASSAR MISCELLANY MONTHLY 
1894-1916 


PUBLISHED BY 

THE VASSAR MISCELLANY MONTHLY 



Copyright 1916 
by 

The Vassar Miscellany Monthly 


Press of 

The A. V. Haight Company 
Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 



n * 

DEC 15 1916 

©C1.A453071 , 

T/UD > 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


A Waltz by Chopin E. H. Haight, 1894 

The Mad Poet Nancy Vincent McClelland, 1897 

Before the Dawn M. R., 1897 

Night Wind Fanny Hart, 1898 


Where the Dead Past Sits Enthroned 

Emma Lou Garrett, 1899 


Sunset 1901 

Loneliness Adelaide Crapsey, 1901 

With the Passing of the Sun Emma Lou Garrett, 1 899 

A Fragment Evelina Pierce, 1902 

Dutch Tulips Mary Atwater Mason, 1902 

November JLetitia Jean Smythe, 1901 

Spring Song Mary Fleming, 1902 

Through Winter Woods... .Margaret Adelaide Pollard, 1902 

The Seer Mary Burt Messer, S 

White Wings Elsie Mitchell Rushmore, 1906 

Song of An Irish Mother Olive Stewart, 1908 

Elemental Eliza Adelaide Draper, 1907 

The Chorus Louise Medbery, 1907 

A Pagan Beatrice Dorr, 1909 

On the Coast of Maine Louisa Brooke, 1907 

To-Night Life’s Web Seemed Twisted All Awry 

Dorothea Gay, 1911 
Where the Waves Meet the Shore.. Katharine Taylor, 1910 

Christmas Sarah Hincks, 1910 

Fluctuation Hazel Bishop Poole, 1909 

The Sea Shore Ruth Elizabeth Presley, 1909 

In the Hospital Ruth Elizabeth Presley, 1909 

Summer Winds Margaret Adams Hobbs, 1910 

Flitter Moth Genevieve J. Williams, 1911 

Morning on the River Helen Lathrop, 1911 

The Poet’s Mistress Sings Genevieve J. Williams, 191 1 

Exile Marion Eleanor Crampton, 191 1 

The Knot-Hole Margaret Frances Culkin, 1912 

Saxon Lullaby Dorothea Gay, 1911 

Afterwards Genevieve J. Williams, 1911 

Queen’s Lace Frances Shriver, 1911 

Frorfr ijie Dusk Elizabeth Toof, 1913 


Page 

11 

12 

16 

17 

18 
20 
21 
22 
23 

25 

26 
28 

29 

30 

31 

33 

34 

35 

36 
38 

42 

43 

44 

45 

46 

47 

48 

49 

50 

51 

53 

54 
56 

58 

59 

60 


3 


Page 

Pierrette Helen Clark, 1913 61 

The Wind Song Henriette de Saussure Blanding, 1912 62 

After the Season Helen Dorothea Romer, 1912 65 

Sleep Song of the Pines Elizabeth Toof, 1913 67 

Tristram Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 68 

Alyth Elizabeth Toof, 1913 69 

Winds and the Lilies Helen Lombaert Scobey, 1913 70 

From Homer Rebecca Park Lawrence, 1913 71 

A Prayer to Buddha Elizabeth Toof, 1913 73 

The Abbey Bells of Middleburg 

Helen Lombaert Scobey, 1913 74 

To a Stranger Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914 76 

Love Song Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914 77 

0, I Went Down to the River Bank 

Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914 78 

Evening Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 79 

Persephone to Orpheus Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 80 

Interim Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1917 81 

Swing in the Swing Vivian Gurney, 1915 y5 

The Apprentice Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 96 

Chanson Katharine Schermerhorn Oliver, 1915 98 

The Dragon Lamp Louise Hunting Seaman, 1915 99 

London Chimney Pots Vivian Gurney, 1915 101 

Man Mending a Pipe Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 102 

Love Song Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 104 

Circe Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 105 

The Lover Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 

Katharine Schermerhorn Oliver, 1915 106 

Rebellion Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 108 

Cathleen Ni Houlihan Miriam S. Wright, 1918 1 10 

The Defiance of Lilith Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1916 111 

Autumn Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 113 

The Dreamer Elsie Lanier, 1918 115 

Horace C. I. 29 Agnes Rogers, 1916 116 

Prologue (From the Pageant of Athena) 117 

Alta Mater Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 119 

Dawn Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 120 

The Sandman Helen Johnson, 1918 121 

The Fairy Ring Elizabeth Keller, 1916 122 

Alone Charlotte Van deWater, 1917 123 

Road Song Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 124 

Confidante Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 125 

The Suicide Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1917 126 

An Etching Elsie Lanier, 1918 136 


4 


Attainment Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 

Wind Rhythm Elizabeth Mary Hincks, 1917 

Unseen Bee W. Hasler, 1917 

Mid-Winter Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 


AT RANDOM 


Dress A la Carte 

Nothing At All F. L. McK., 1898 

Lament K. T., 1910 

Irony 

The Leading Man I. U., 1910 

My Soul R. P. L., 1913 

Sonnet to a Hair Pin M. M., 1915 

A Psychological Disillusion H. E. B., 1917 

The Ballad of Bad ’Boccy C. C. W., 1917 

Piscis Vassariae C. C. W., 1917 

Fluncture C. C. W., 1917 

The Old Order Changeth C. C. W., 1917 

Why Did I Ever Come to This Place?.... E. St. V. M., 1917 

Partiality M.A. P., 1905 

Humanity L. B., 1907 

Humility E. B. D., 1909 

Bug of June V. L. B., 1911 

A Valentine M. H., 1912 

The Centipede E. K., 1916 

Spring Song C. C. W., 1917 


Page 

137 

139 

140 
142 


147 

148 

150 

151 

152 

153 

154 
156 
158 
160 
161 
162 
153 
167 
169 

169 

170 

171 

172 
174 


5 






PREFACE 


In the selection of the verse in this vol- 
ume, the editors had a twofold purpose: 
first and foremost to preserve verse of 
the highest possible standard of excellence; 
and secondly, to show through the collec- 
tion the development of verse-making in 
the college since 1893, when a similar an- 
thology was published. The poems have 
been arranged in chronological order, with 
reference to their appearance in The Mis- 
cellany , in order to make more evident the 
changing influences which have acted upon 
their authors, and the broadening scope of 
their themes. The book cannot fail to 
have a certain significance of symbolism, 
for in the lyric expression of the writers is 
apparent the widening range of the college 
girl’s emotional and intellectual interest 
and the quickening of her contact with 
reality, as well as her increased power of 
expression. 


7 


In a measure the editors have sacrificed 
the historical to the aesthetic. Propor- 
tionately, recent poetry is more completely 
represented than that of the older mag- 
azines because it seems superior in variety 
and in finish, Because of this lack of 
proportion, the reader may not sense as 
keenly as did the compilers the contrast 
between the masses of conventional nature 
poetry and lullabies of the older school, 
and the varied richness of subject in 
the more modern songs, He may, how- 
ever, watch imitation give way to in- 
terpretation, and thought and imagery 
deepen under the increasing grace of form. 
And he may trace to the end the spirit 
of courageous experiment, the reaching 
forth of young hands to new materials to 
be shaped into new forms. 

The editors make no apology for in- 
cluding nonsense verse at the end of 
the volume, because it represents a defi- 
nite phase of student life. To understand 
the life of a college without understanding 
the whimsies of its citizens is impossible. 


8 


The critic who condemns us for a sacrifice 
of dignity condemns the truthfulness of 
our volume. And he condemns some- 
thing more — he condemns the spirit which 
says, “We have worked for a purpose, 
we have loved our work, and we have 
smiled.” 

Editors of the Vassar Miscellany Monthly 1916 - 1917 . 


9 



A WALTZ BY CHOPIN 


Far, far away 

We float upon a melody of sound; 

Blue sky above us, golden light around. 

And all the world one dreamy summer 
day. 

Far, far away 

A bird’s soft note breaks o’er the water, 
clear, 

The answering song reveals his mate 
is near, 

And then they join in warbling on their 
way. 

Far, far away, 

Soft, softer grows the tender, dual strain, 

One last, faint note responsive comes 
again, 

Then silence falls. Breathless we wait 
in pain, 

But music, birds and spell have gone 
their way, 

Far, far away. 


11 


E. H. Haight, 1894. 


THE MAD POET 


Mad, quite mad, they tell you? Ah, poor 
fools! 

They little know of what they speak. 
For see, 

As no two sunsets ever were alike 

Into whose gold the evening world was 
dripped, 

As no two blossoms ever bloomed the 
same 

Though grown so close that one the other 
touched, 

So no two men. Go tell those prating 
fools 

The divine difference is but more in- 
creased 

Between themselves and me, and thus 
content 

Their minds. ************ 

If one of them had ever felt the touch 

’Neath which my soul has quivered since 
its birth, 


12 


He would not call me mad. That yearn- 
ing love 

Which is the poet’s food found place in 
me; 

And seized on all my little world contained 
To sate itself. With Nature’s smile 
I smiled, and at her tears I wept. And 
then 

The love I bore all things was gathered 
in 

And centered on one being. Seemingly 
It greater grew in its intensity, 

And, looking in her eyes, I felt my heart 
Swell with a passion hitherto unknown, 
Swell until nigh to breaking, so that grief 
Stood next to joyfulness within my love. 

Once, as we played, I drew a flower across 
Her smiling lips and flower-like face, and 
thought 

The while, her lids were lovelier far 
Than those down-drooping petals of the 
bloom; 

And thereon cast the fragile thing aside, 
And smiled to think how long that fairer 
flower 


13 


Would stay to cheer me, sent to brush 
away 

The blossom’s gold that clung upon her 
cheeks 

With burning kisses. Each time when 
my lips 

Touched her dear face our souls seemed 
made as one 

And mingled in a flood of ecstasy! 

Again I kissed, and held the face away 

’Twixt both my hands, to view with 
ravished eyes 

The blushes that I knew o’erspread it. 
Fiend! 

What loathsome object met my madden- 
ed gaze! 

A face indeed — that self-same face de- 
formed 

By awful brands. ********** 

Oh Heavens! Every kiss had made a 
scar! 

Her eyes alone were radiant as before, 

But burned into my soul. Look! See 
them there — 


14 


There in that corner — here before my 
face! 

Nothing but eyes, eyes, eyes — they pierce 
my flesh — 

They scorch my heart out! Yes, they 
want my soul 

To drag it down to Hell — 0 endless life 

Of torture! Savage, ceaseless misery! 
************** 

And so men call me mad? 

Nancy Vincent McClelland, 1897 . 


15 


BEFORE THE DAWN 


Before the dawn, when all the world’s 
asleep, 

And even little brooks forget to sing, 

The mother moon her faithful watch must 
keep 

O’er all the stars. Her task it is to bring 
Her pretty children to their slumbering. 
She lays aside her own bright, golden 
veil, 

Then draws upon each shining baby head 
A little night-cap, soft and very pale. 
Soon all the sky is dark, untenanted 
Before the dawn the star-babes go to bed. 

M. R., 1897 . 


16 


NIGHT-WIND 


I called to the Night-wind, the Night- 
wind sang “No”, 

Tossing the elms and the willows; 

Then clasping the stars to her breast she 
swept low 

In her storm-flowing hair on the billows. 

I called to the Night-wind, the Night- 
wind sighed “Yes”, 

Mountain-tops golden were gleaming, 

Then I gathered her hair to me, tress by 
tress, 

The stars drooped, her eyes were dream- 
ing. 

Fanny Hart, 1898 . 


17 


WHERE THE DEAD PAST SITS 
ENTHRONED 


Dark are the shadows, dark the walls of 
stone 

That close about her; silence over all. 

The dim light shows her regal figure, tall 

And stately, seated on an ancient throne. 

White-faced she is, and dead, and all 
alone. 

A withered palm her nerveless hands let 
fall, 

And white against the blackness of the 
wall 

Shines out her hair, with cobwebs over- 
grown. 

Wide are her eyes and straining through 
the gloom 

Far searching always, but the rocks that 
loom 

Throughout the void let never pilgrim 
nigh, 

Nor voice e’er break the silence of that 
tomb, 


18 


But now and then the dead thing throned 
on high 

Sends through the darkness one great, 
shuddering cry. 

Emma Lou Garrett, 1899 . 


19 


SUNSET 


Now dark-eyed evening softly steals be- 
hind 

And hides the eyes of day with her cool 
hands, 

While lights and shadows play o’er mead- 
ow lands 

And up the hills, at sportive hood-man- 
blind. 

“Guess who am I?” with voice of mur- 
muring wind 

She softly asks. He falters, “Art thou 
night?” 

With loving smiles she doth his eyes un- 
bind, 

Herself revealing. He, in passion bright. 

Flames to an esctasy of rapturous delight. 

1901. 


20 


LONELINESS 


The earth’s all wrapped in gray shroud- 
mist, 

Dull gray are sea and sky, 

And where the water laps the land 
On gray sand-dunes stand I. 

Oh, if God there be, his face from me 
The rolling gray mists hide; 

And if God there be, his voice from me 
Is kept by the moan of the tide. 

Adelaide Crapsey, 1901 . 


21 


WITH THE PASSING OF THE SUN 


Dead is the sun king on his royal couch 
Of gold and purple; and the night monks 
come 

And silently creep near it, one by one, 
And, sombre-robed, uplift their taper 
stars. 

And in the darkness chant a requiem. 

Emma Lou Garrett, 1899 . 


22 


A FRAGMENT 


{Supposed continuation of line 277 , Book V, Odyssey) 


And Calypso, fair among nymphs, lovely 
with grace of goddess, 

Stood on the sands of the sea-beach and 
gazed far out on the ocean. 

There on the dark-colored sea, like a bird 
on the high-vaulted heaven, 

Sped the great barge of Odysseus, tossed 
by the surge of the waters. 

Smaller and smaller it grew, till at last 
she could see it no longer. 

There sat she down and wept, mournful 
she was, and despairing; 

Slowly the stars came out like torches 
proclaiming the night-fall, 

Shining till dimmed by Aurora, they sank 
to their bath in the billows. 


23 


But Calypso, fair among nymphs, sat 
on the sands of the sea-beach, 
Weeping and hiding her face from the sight 
of the pitiless ocean. 

Evelina Pierce, 1902 . 


24 


DUTCH TULIPS 

Acres of glowing color 
Stretching from dyke to stream, 
Lifting their blazing torches 
Bright as a fleeting dream; 

Like a flush of rose on the meadows. 
Or a blot of blood-red wine, 

Or a flaming field of cloth-of-gold. 
Is Holland, in tulip time! 

Mary Atwater Mason, 1902 . 


25 


NOVEMBER 


Quiet, at peace, in silent strength she 
stands, 

The dull wind blowing on her rugged 
face, 

Roughing her heavy hair; with sombre 
grace 

Tall, leafless branches sway in her strong 
hands; 

The rude burrs catch her dress, and thorny 
vines 

Touched with the last deep color of the 
year 

Cling to its hem, faded and frayed and 
sear, 

Fringing the coarse, dusk folds with 
fragile spines. 

A look far-seeing fills her wide, deep eyes, 

And the still light of long, gray after- 
noon. 


26 


Bravely she waits the future, asks no 
boon, 

Hers the year’s precious past, its golden 
memories. 

Letitia Jean Smyth , 1901 . 


27 


SPRING SONG 


The glad, mad hills 
All veined with rills, 

Are glowing a glory 
Of infinite green, 

And a lyric laughter flashes round 
With the onyx-emerald sheen. 

To the birch foam toss, 

To the throb of the glade, 

To the pulse of the wheat, 

To the surge of the blade, 

To the beat of the flood, 

To the reel of the blood, 

Dance! lilt! swing! 

And off! Awing 

With the gold-throat oriole. 

Mary Fleming, 1902 . 


28 


THROUGH WINTER WOODS 


Gray mottled beech trunks locked in snow, 
And a muffled stillness all around; 

A stillness cut with the little smack 
Of a tiny twig a-springing back 
As a ball of snow with a breathy sound 
Drops from the iced green pines bent low. 

Pale yellow shafts on a snow blue-white 
And a molten sun behind the hill; 

And thickening shadows under the trees 
And the sharp little sting of a sudden 
breeze, 

As up from the crackled crusted rill 
Comes the clean-cut breath of the winter’s 
night. 

Margaret Adelaide Pollard, 1902 . 


29 


THE SEER 


To dwell alone in countries of the sun; 

To go all uncompanioned in the light; 

To see the valleys from a windy height, 

And long to rest therein, day being done. 

To weary of the beauties, one by one, 

That shine across the air too bleakly 
bright; 

To be too close upon the stars by night. 

And, lonely as the peak, abide thereon! 

Immortal mind and mortal heart that 
yearns, 

Grave wondrous soul to whom God speaks 
his word, 

The skies are cold, and earth is warm with 
love! 

Come for a space to where the hearth- 
fire burns. 

And then if God’s own voice should sound 
unheard! 

Nay, thou shalt watch and wait and 
dream thereof. 


30 


Mary Burt Messer, S. 


WHITE WINGS 


She lingered for a while beside life’s sea, 

Gathering strange, lovely thoughts to 
string like shells 

In lyric lengths of song, 

Numbering the rhythmic beating of the 
deep, 

Watching the soft, clear day steal from 
the east, 

Or westward fading, touch the crinkling 
waves 

With tender glory; and she saw the boats 

Glide with ribbed sails across the sun, 
and flit 

Whit’ning through the blue distance, 
where afar 

The heavenly country lies all wrapped 
in mist. 

There most of all she gazed, and if a 
gleam 

Threaded the mist, her passionate, grave 
eyes 


31 


With more than earthly lustre caught its 
light; 

Thus did she live until her soul took wing 
And vanished, like some white bird, in 
the blue. 

Elsie Mitchell Rushmore, 1906 . 


32 


SONG OF AN IRISH MOTHER 


Out ’cross the swamp and the mire 
The weirdies are flashin’ their fire, 

An’ down in the log-wood the soft rains 
are failin’, 

Where the wee lonesome fairies are callin’ 
and callin’, 

With voices that sound like yours, 
With voices that sound like yours. 

Your daddy’s old pipe’s gettin’ low, 
Where he sits in the hearth-fire’s glow, 
And all ’round the thatch-roof the rain 
spirit’s swishin’ 

While I’m waitin’ here, darlin’, a wishin* 
an’ wishin’ 

You were back in this cradle o’ yours, 
You were back in this cradle o’ yours. 

Olive Stewart, 1908 . 


33 


ELEMENTAL 


There are five elements of which all existing things 
are composed , — Earth, Air Fire, Water, and Ether 

Japanese Legend. 

Driven wind on the gray hill’s crest, 
Wandering breeze in the green marsh 
grass; 

Measureless height and endless reach, 
Deepening blue of the open sky; 

Flame, — the sweep of a red-hot scourge, 
And the licking tongue of the leaping fire: 

Frolic of water over the stones; 

Limpid depths of a quiet pool: 

The odor of fresh-turned earth in spring, 
Warm and virile and rich with life. 

Passionate, vivid, wayward, free, 

Beloved, you’re all of the world to me. 

Eliza Adelaide Draper, 1907 . 

34 


THE CHORUS 


Whisper to the moon-gleam, 

Whisper to the sea, 

Whisper to the moonbeam, 

Follow, follow me. 

When the wind is in the willows, 

And the fireflies in the glen, 

And the moonlight on the pillows 
Of sleep-enamoured men, — 

When the elves are in the forest, 
Seeking starshine in the dew, 

And their tiny tunes are chorused 

Where the starlight filters through; 

Then, whisper to the moon-gleams, 
Whisper to the sea, 

Whisper to the moonbeams, 

Follow, follow me. 

Louise Medbery, 1907 . 


35 


A PAGAN 


I am a pagan, I! 

I worship earth and sun and sea and sky; 

I hold no faith, expressed in mankind’s 
words. 

My creed comes to me in the song of 
birds, 

And waving grasses, and the sun’s glad 
light, 

And strong, high hills and rivers, silver- 
bright, 

And soft, still clouds that silently float 
by, - 

I am a pagan, I! 

I never wonder why 

All men are born to sin, and then to die. 

I only love the whole great world around, 

And revel in its joy of sight and sound. 

I love it all, — I love, and long to praise 

The strange, great unknown Soul of it 
always, 


36 


The Soul of earth and sun and sea and 
sky,— 

Am I a pagan, I? 

Beatrice Daw f 1909. 


\ 


37 


ON THE COAST OF MAINE 


I. 

Off-Shore 

The dappled blue of the evening sky, 
With the cloud-rack in the west, 

All purpled bright in the living light, 

Like the Islands of the Blest. 

And out of the islands sweeps the wind 
As much as the sails can hold, 

As we race home through the rustling foam 
And the grey waves laced with gold. 

II. 

In the Fog 

The cool grey wraps us more and more, 
Our slack sail lifts to the fitful wind, 
And I see through the rift where the 
fog has thinned 

The floating ghost of the distant shore. 


33 


III. 

On the Sand-Bar 

The curdling foam on the blue-black 
sands, 

The lap and splash of the rising tide, 
As it slowly creeps to the farther side, 
Where the lone tree stretches its ghostly 
hands. 


IV. 

A Summer Storm 

A leaden sea and a silver sky, 

A line of light at the sunset edge, 

Long wisps of cloud go drifting by, 

While the white foam licks at the rocky 
ledge. 

Then the shouting sea-wind takes its toll? 

From the moaning forest’s pain, 

And the storm sweeps by with the thun- 
der’s roll, 

And the rattle of the rain. 


39 


V. 

In the Pine-Woods 

The sunlight through the pines 

Touches the mossy stones with living 
green, 

And marks the silver lines 
Left where the fairy spinner’s way has 
been. 

With tender murmuring 
The fragrant breezes steal from tree to 
tree, 

And now the vagrants bring 

The vital freshness of the distant sea. 


VI. 

Outward-Bound 

The schooner’s sail is slack and drawn 
And the schooner’s wheel is still, 

And the sick prow lifts through the shift- 
ing seas, 

Like a thing bereft of will. 


40 


For the grey fog wraps us round, my lads, 
And the good ship needs must stay, 
Then hey and ho! for the bonny breeze, 
That drives the fog away. 


There’s a crinkling over the sluggish 
waves, 

A whispering in the sail, 

And the schooner turns like a tired dog, 
At the sound of his master’s hail. 

For the grey fog lifts off-shore, my lads, 
And the good ship bounds away. 

Then hey and ho! for the bonny breeze 
That drives the fog away. 

Louisa Brooke, 1907 . 


41 


TO-NIGHT LIFE’S WEB SEEMED 
TWISTED ALL AWRY 


To-night life’s web seemed twisted all 
awry, 

Its faded colors trampled in the ground, 

Till here, within the darkening woods, I 
found 

This quiet pool beneath the starlit sky. 

The waters deeply still, the lissome reeds 

Scarce ruffling its smooth surface, the low, 
soft 

Monotonous murmur of the pines aloft, 

The very air a sweet contentment breeds. 

Above, a heron floats on softened wing. 

Deep in the woods a liquid-thrilling 
thrush 

Voices the dumb souled Night. And 
through the hush 

I feel your great, calm spirit comforting. 

The tangled webs grow straight. And 
now we seem 

Together, ’neath the stars, to sit and 

^ ream - Dorothea Gay, 1911 . 


WHERE THE WAVES MEET THE 
SHORE 


My fingers touch the cool, firm sand, 
They let it sift between them, lovingly. 
The little waves, with rhythmic melody, 
Hush, and whisper, and break forth in 
gentle song, 

As they plash in and out; 

As each recedes, the uncovered beach 
Is quickened with a life from out the west, 
And — like the dew drops on the faery 
webs 

That breathe with color in the early morn- 
Each moment it receives the warm caress 
Of that far, radiant space beyond the sea, 
And, shimmering momently, gives back 
A quiet answer, with a flush 
Of soft dream fire. 

Katherine Taylor, 1910 . 


43 


CHRISTMAS 


Mother, just listen — town is sparkly 
bright, 

And windows full of gorgeous things, 
And holly, bundles, people — Oh, I saw 
Such cunning angel’s wings. 

But out doors here it is so very still, 

My stars are smiling far away, 

I can’t tell why, — and then the little wind 
Just kissed me, and won’t say. 

Mother, you’re smiling like the people 
too, 

And like the little wind, and why 
Am I so very happy — just so glad, 

And inside want to cry? 

Sarah Hindis, 1910 . 


44 


FLUCTUATION 


It lies o’er grain-fields surging in the 
breeze; 

On the dim wood-path in the glancing 
shift 

Of sunlight falling through the air-stirred 
trees; 

Or on the ocean in the breathless lift 

Of moon-tracked swells not risen to a 
wave; 

In autumn leaves revolving as they 
drift; 

In eyes, as Dante calls them, “slow and 
grave*’; 

In smiles of earnest men and human 
seers. — 

A certain rhythmic play of light and shade 

That weaves the shimmering fabric 
of our years. 

Hazel Bishop Poole, 1909 . 


45 


THE SEA-SHORE 


The sun is warm upon my back, 

As warm as mother’s hand, 

And where I’ve dug my well to-day 
There’s water in the sand. 

The Chinese boys down underneath, 
Are they as warm as me? 

The water half-way down my well 
Is cold as it can be. 

Ruth Elizabeth Presley, 1909 . 


46 


IN THE HOSPITAL 


These days when I am sick in bed — 

I’ve been in bed so long you know — 

I lie and listen to the steps 
And wonder where they go. 

They hurry past out on the walk 
And hurry up the empty street, 

They’re going home’s fast they can, 

I know those happy feet. 

Sometimes out in the corridor 
A nurse goes by with slow, soft slide; 
Sometimes she hurries — then I know 
Some boy like me, has died. 

Ruth Elizabeth Presley , 1909 . 


47 


SUMMER WINDS 


They rush along, the daughters of the 
wind, 

Grey-eyed, strong-limbed, their dust- 
brown hair swirled back. 

The children of the great warm west are 
they. 

One, high among the white cloud domes 
that hang 

So lazy in the sky, stirs them to life. 

Another skims across the grass that bends 

In silver waves beneath her scarce-felt 
tread. 

Then, darting up, past twinkling maple 
leaves, 

Bows down the tall elm’s crown. 

But onward, ever onward still they rush, 

And meeting in the wood, sigh through 
the pines 

And pass and leave behind in drowsy 
heat, 

A breathless calm, close-wrapping like a 
shroud. Margaret Adams Hobbs, 1910 . 

48 


FLITTER-MOTH 


On the road to — Anywhere! — once I met 
her singing; 

Such a little elf was she, 

Winsome, full of witchery, 

Shy as any sprite could be, — 

Dancing, flitting, winging. 

On the road to — Anywhere! — over hill 
and hollow, 

Where the little witch demure, 

Ever beckoning, doth lure, 

Weary, humble and obscure, 

I, her pilgrim, follow. 

On the road to — Anywhere! — I will ne’er 
forsake her. 

Though the little witch may be 
Naught but errant Fantasy, 

Though she flout and mock at me, 

I will overtake her. 

Gencciete J. Williams , 1911 . 


49 


MORNING ON THE RIVER 


The river moves in silvery expanse, 

Soft-brushed with early mist along its 
shores, 

Whose peaceful slopes lie slumbering dim 
and gray, — 

While far above one glistening white gull 
soars. 

Helen Lathrop, 1911 . 


50 


THE POET’S MISTRESS SINGS 


My love is not as other lovers are — 

He comes to me from planets more re- 
mote; 

The voice of distant worlds is in his 
throat, 

His eyes have caught the light of some 
strange star. 

Such gifts he brings as queens in vain de- 
sire, 

Proud queens, for all their crowns of 
carven gold, 

Their silken robes, in lustrous fold on fold, 

For all their gems that flame like frozen 
fire. 

Their hearts cry vainly for the gifts he 
brings — 

Wild, winged songs that soar and flash 
and fall, 


51 


Dark, splendid songs, and beautiful and 
small 

Sweet songs that softly to my heart he 
sings. 

For through the circling worlds he takes 
his flight, 

Seeking rare songs, that I, his love, may 
be 

Clothed in the subtle splendor of the sea, 

Crowned with the ancient glory of the 
night. 

Genevieve J. Williams, 1911 . 


52 


EXILE 


Alfalfa fields, at twilight purple-gray, 
Where western prairie bounds the curve 
of sky, — 

A narrow road that has nor tree nor bend, 
A toiler from the mill who passes by. 

A figure with a tinge of Old World grace, 
Deep color in the kerchief knotted free, 
Young eyes that hold a hint of Athens’ 
gleam, — 

A longing for a sunlit, azure sea. 

Marion Eleanor Crampton, 1911 . 


53 


THE KNOT-HOLE 


There’s a whiff of dust cornin’ down the 
road, 

It’s fairies in dust clouds that’s 
blowin’, 

Find a knot-hole to look at them through, 
boyneen, 

And their errand you’ll be knowin’. 

’Tis I had better be lookin’ myself, 

Wurra, be keepin’ behind — 

When the Little Men catch your eye 
through the knot, 

’Tis the black curse they give, strike 
you blind. 

If they should bring me a changeling, 
now, 

’Tis a trouble for some one they’re 
bearin’, 

See the crooked, dancin’ legs on them, 

And the scraps of coats they’re wearin’. 


54 


Mother Mercy, did one of them see me 
then? 

The crowd’s gettin’ distant and far, 
The corn crake is cryin’ — it’s day then, 
sure, 

Boyneen, where is it you are! 

Mar gar cl Frances Culkin , 1912 . 


55 


SAXON LULLABY 


Folded asleep are the hawthorne blows, 

And faint on the evening wind is the rose. 

Wriggle no more, little son, be still, 

For the Lord of Dreams waits here at the 
sill. 

By-low-low. 

Thou shalt ride this night on a milk- 
white steed, 

Shod by Weland with shoes of speed, 

Adown the gleaming Roman road, 

Its border with scarlet dream-blooms 
sowed, 

And the wind shall whistle through thy 
locks — 

But when thou hearest the surf on the 
rocks. 

Draw rein and remember thy mother at 
home. 

Draw rein, turn back oh son of mine! 

Though sky is blue and white sails shine, 
56 


Though the ring-necked ships do thee 
courtesy, 

And in homage the sea-birds dip to the 
sea. 

Trust not the slow waves heaving black; 

More men go out than e’er come back 

Over the gannet — road to Rome. 

So, so! I meant not to fright thee, hush! 

The linnet is singing good-night to the 
thrush. 

All out of doors is drowsy and gray, 

And I wait to speed thee on thy way. 

By-low-low. 

Dorothea Gay, 1911 . 


57 


AFTERWARDS 


I think you sent the withered leaves 
That blew all day across the grass, 

All day, all day they rustled by, 

A tattered, flying mass. 

For all the world was whirling leaves 
Against the lonely, wind-swept sky. 
And every leaf was whispering 
Your name as it flew by. 

Tonight the leaves lie quietly, 

Sodden and still beneath the rain 
That drums along the eaves, and drives 
Against the window pane. 

Genevieve J. Williams, 1911 . 


58 


QUEEN’S LACE 

Child! how high the brown weeds stand, 
Reaching up to touch your hand! 

Round your knees the Queen’s lacedry 
Holds up cups as you pass by. 

You, who see the tiny elves 
In those seed-cups rock themselves, 

Tell the flowers to love me too, 

Reaching cups to me as you! 

Frances Shricer, 1911 . 


59 


FROM THE DUSK 


The dark’ning road had hidden you; I 
turned 

In dread to see the home we loved, but 
watched 

The garden changed to spirit; tinged trees 

That rose across the mist, or glowed like 
cloud 

About the lamps; a vague dim sky that 
made 

All distance nothing, even absence all 

Mistaken fear; then felt you close and 
groped — 

And struck my hand against the iron 
gate. 

Elizabeth Tool 1913 . 


60 


PIERRETTE 


Ah, Pierrette! I see thee dance 
Amid the maskers gay. 

With piquant poise, with witching glance, 
As sweetly pale a face 
As an arbutus bud in May, 

Save for the scarlet lips, 

So laughing light with wind-swayed grace 
Through music’s maze you trip. 

Ah, Pierrette! I know thy heart, 

A burning crimson rose 

By folly’s rude hand plucked apart 

To many a bleeding shred, 

Robbed of its bloom by sorrow’s snows. 
One night when I was near, 

“Ah, God! I wish that I were dead,” 
You whispered in my ear. 

HclenlCIark, 1913 . 


61 


THE WIND SONG 


I am the child of the sea — 

I sweep the purple fog on its landward 
track, 

I cry in the thundering roar of the ocean 
surge, 

I beat the crests of the towering waves to 
foam, 

And dash them down to burst on the angry 
reefs; 

I tear the sea-weed black from the salt- 
sprayed rock, 

I lash the stark brown cliffs with hissing 
surf, 

I toss and buffet the treasure-laden 
ships, 

And strip the taut-stretched sail from the 
shivering mast, 

And strew the waste of waves with their 
golden spoils, 

And hurl them up to rot on the strangers’ 
shore, 

And mock at the hopes of men. 

62 


I am the child of the land — 

I whistle in whirling dust through the 
city street, 

I shriek through the rigid frame of slen- 
der steel, 

Looming black and bare to the cold green 
sky; 

I batter the thousand panes with shower 
of hail, 

Sweeping the roof and the cornice heaped 
with snow; 

I blow o’er the rolling prairies’ inland sea, 

Where the fields of corn lie red in the 
evening light, 

And the deepening purple shadows creep 
to the east, 

As the curling smoke cloud beckons the 
laborer home; 

I rush o’er the western ranges wide and 
clear, 

With the sage brush green and gray in the 
morning sun, 

The rock-red soil and the brown of the 
stunted pine; 

I sing in the rhythmic beat of the broncho’s 
hoofs, 


The blast of the surging stream that 
seeks for gold, 

The thud of the axe as it swings in the 
clearing green; 

I moan through the desert’s awful silences, 

Where the cold gray rocks, ’mid the miles 
of barren brush, 

From a level sea loom gaunt to the ghostly 
moon; 

I howl in the roar of the train with its 
shower of fire, 

The piercing engine’s shriek through the 
black ravine. 

The wild coyote’s cry to the lonely stars; 

I sweep o’er the empty wastes of sand, 
and yearn 

For the finite souls of men. 

Hcnrictle dc Saussure Blanding, 1912 . 


64 


AFTER THE SEASON 


Untrampled lies the sand, smooth, hard 
and clean, 

Scattered with gleaming yellow cockle 
shells 

And bits of grey drift-wood. The cool 
air smells 

Freshly of salt, most when the wind blows 
keen 

From off south-lying fishing banks. Se- 
rene 

The pale blue sky bends down to meet 
the swells 

That set the buoys aswing and toll the 
bells, 

Then break upon the bar, wild white and 
green. 

The bathing beach is marked by rope- 
less posts; 

The vacant board-walk stretches dull 
and bare. 

The Old Casino’s shuttered windows 
stare 


65 


Half-crazed by sighing of the uneasy 
ghosts 

Of tunes the band used, summer long, 
to play, — 

Far out at sea one ship’s smoke fades 
away. 

Helen Dorothea Romer, 1912 . 


66 


SLEEP SONG OF THE PINES 


Dimness and dusky bars 
Drift on the branches’ light; 
Dearer than song are stars. 

Dearer than day is night. 

Moon-quivers pale and long 
Meet on the mosses gray. 

Dearer is dream than song, 
Dearer is night than day. 

Elizabeth Toof, 1913 . 


67 


TRISTRAM 


For me, Iseult, the shadows of your hair 
Hold all the dusky sweetness of the night, 
Your eyes the joy of all the shining stars. 
Deep in your voice the comfort of the rain, 
The warmth and vibrant stillness of noon 
suns 

Lie folded, as in promise of the Spring. 
I can not let you go! Your loss would be 
The loss of all the meaning that is Life. 

Yet — sometimes when the night wind 
holds her breath 

A voice cries through the darkness: “ This 
is Death!” 

Elizabeth Mason Heath , 1916 . 


68 


ALYTH 


Naked as sun-fleck she treads the brook, 
Trailing the water weed tangled there; 
Glows of her hair make the shadows blind; 
Teased by her laughter the winds des- 
pair. 

Stain of the rushes and tear of thorn 
Darken her feet in the water’s flow; 
Glimmers that fall from her breast and 
hair 

Mingle and stir like a lily’s glow. 

Elizabeth Toof, 1913 . 


69 


WINDS AND THE LILIES 


I wish I were the wind that blows 

In the wood-lilies, 

And bends and breaks them and then 
goes. 

What of the broken lilies then? Who 
knows, 

For who thinks twice of anything the 
wind 

Has torn and thinned! 

Deep golden petals scattered on the air 

Drift here and there — 

Deep tawny golden — more like Inyr’s 
hair 

Than anything I’ve dreamed of; she is 
pale 

And slim and frail 

As the slenderest lily-stalks Heaven knows. 

I wish I were the wind that blows 

In the wood-lilies 

And bends and breaks them and then 
goes. 


Helen Lombaert Scobey, 1913 . 
70 


FROM HOMER 


“Homer, thy song men liken to the sea, 

With every note of music in his tone, 

With tides that wash the wide dominion 

Of Hades, and light waves that lash in 
glee, 

Around the isles enchanted. *****” 

Before me sweeps the dark and widening 
sea 

And wistfully, I strain my eyes across the 
waves 

To glimpse the sturdy, wing-sailed ship 
that bears 

My son again to Ithaca * * * a fair 
haired lad, 

Boy to the battle-famed Odysseus, who 
had 

But lately left his play, to sail 

To far off Ilium, o’er the deep’ning sea. 

How long the years have been; how 
heavy-winged! 


71 


The lad mayhap has changed; his eyes 
less young, 

His voice less full of joyous mirth; 

His heart — oh Zeus immortal, give to me 

His heart as sweet, as when he played at 
ball 

Beside me in the sunny megaron * * * * 

While 1 plied back and forth to spin for 
him 

A kiton from new-carded wool ***** 

How long the watch is; and how dark the 
sea. 

Rebecca Park Lawrence , 1913 . 


72 


A PRAYER TO BUDDHA 


The wind has blown against my face 

A leaf of mist-wet bloom. 

In calm of depthless thinking , look forever 

Upon the leaves of lake-lapped lotus 
flowers , 

No chanting from thy temples break thy 
musing ; 

Nor prayer bells mark the silence into hours . 

But when the smoke of sandal-wood is 
rising 

From Temples where the throbs of chant- 
ing cease , — 

Because that scent once stilled thy prayer 
to silence , 

Upon thy people lay the spell of peace. 

The wind has blown against my face 

A leaf of mist-wet bloom. 

Elizabeth Toof, 1913 . 


73 


THE ABBEY BELLS OF MIDDEL- 
BURG 


At Middelburg the night drags slow 
Because the chimes are never still, 

But mark the quarters as they go 
With carillons unending, shrill. 

You hear the bells at Middelburg, 

The Abbey bells of Middelburg, 

Until it seems the live-long night 
Is full of bells at Middelburg. 

You may have visions between bells 
Of Rosendaal with hedge-rimmed fields, 
Or Dort with Docks, or somewhere else 
With long low-lying poppy fields, 

Or Domburg’s dykes and windmill wings- 
But these are visions that give place 
As night creeps on to sadder things, 
While quarters drag and bells keep pace. 

When hope is dead and sleep is vain. 

And thoughts are mad, but dreams are 
worse, 


74 


And every chime smites like a pain, 
And carillons become a curse, 

You hear the bells at Middelburg, 

The shrill high bells at Middelburg, 
Until you think the live-long night 
Is cursed with bells at Middelburg. 

Helen Lombaert Scobey, 1913 . 


75 


TO A STRANGER 


I have seen you arise and go forth in the 

night 

And run up a white winding way 
To the top of a hill, through the grass un- 
der stars, 

Where you chased the wild wind in your 
play. 

You were mad when you tossed back your 
bare head and laughed, 

When you caught at a star in its fall, 

It changed to a glimmering moth and 
flew by, — 

0 tonight, when you pass, will you call? 

Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914 . 


76 


LOVE SONG 


I love you with a heart that dances in 
the sunshine, 

That sings the strangest wildness of a 
wild blue wave, 

That trembles in the fierce sweep of a 
green streaked wind storm, 

When pine trees break and lost birds cry, 
and sky-topped rock cliffs cave. 

I wait for you where clouds stretch pale 
and far off northward. 

Where fruits red ripe are hanging breath- 
less in noon light, 

Where yellow birds are flying over purple 
flowers. 

Where grasses blow with restless yearn- 
ing all the long white night. 

Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914 . 


77 


O, I WENT DOWN TO THE RIVER 
BANK 


0, I went down to the river bank 
Last night 

When a million stars were bright 
And you in the long grass lay. 

0, the wind blew over the river bank 
Last night 

And the touch of your lips was light 
As we in the long grass lay. 

0, I came up from the river bank 
Alone, 

While the weary wind made moan 
And the dawn on the crushed grass lay. 

Ruth Thomas Pickering, 1914 . 


78 


EVENING 


When Evening first, rising from day-long 
rest, 

Cups her slow hands ’round Day’s too 
dazzling light, 

Still through her fingers slips a radiance 
bright 

Reddening and spreading in the darken- 
ing west. 

She sighs; and in the fragrant dusk, the 
breeze 

Makes whispered music through the qui- 
vering trees; 

Then strengthening Night snuffs out the 
Day’s last spark 

And sets the first star shimmering in the 
dark. 

Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 . 


79 


PERSEPHONE TO ORPHEUS 


I do remember now a far off day 

And long-forgotten in this frozen place, — 

A gleam of sunlit flowers, wet with spray, 

And the long sea beach whitening for 
a space 

Between the green land and the purple 
sea. 

The black car hurtles through the startled 
air. 

Forever mingled with my young despair 

The sharp tang of the sea-salt strangles 
me. 

Singer, your song has waked to life again 

The dear lost gift of tears, and all the 
whirl 

Of quick-pulsed love and hatred. Sweet 
is pain 

To one long dead to passion, — Take the 
girl! 

Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 . 


80 


INTERIM 


A man speaks 

The room is full of you! — As I came in 
And closed the door behind me, all at once 
A something in the air, intangible, 

Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses 
sick! — 

Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed 
Each other room’s dear personality. 

The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers, 
The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death, 
Has strangled that habitual breath of 
home 

Whose expiration leaves all houses dead; 
And whereso’er I look is hideous change. 
Save here. Here ’twas as if a weed- 
choked gate 

Had opened at my touch, and I had step- 
ped 

Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange, 
Sweet garden of a thousand years ago 


81 


And suddenly thought, ‘*1 have been here 
before!” 

You are not here. I know that you are 
gone, 

And will not ever enter here again. 

And yet it seems to me, if I should speak, 

Your silent step must wake across the 
hall; 

If I should turn my head, that your sweet 
eyes 

Would kiss me from the door. — So short 
a time 

To teach my life its transposition to 

This difficult and unaccustomed key! — 

The room is as you left it; your last touch 

A thoughtless pressure, knowing not it- 
self 

As saintly — hallows now each simple 
thing; 

Hallows and glorifies, and glows between 

The dust’s gray fingers like a shielded 
light. 

There is your book, just as you laid it 
down, 


82 


Face to the table, — I cannot believe 

That you are gone! — Just then it seemed 
to me 

You must be here. I almost laughed to 
think 

How like reality the dream had been; 

Yet knew before I laughed, and so was 
still. 

That book, out-spread, just as you laid 
it down! 

Perhaps you thought, “1 wonder what 
comes next, 

And whether this or this will be the end,” 

So rose and left it, thinking to return. 

Perhaps that chair, when you arose and 
passed 

Out of the room, rocked silently a while 

Ere it again was still. When you were 
gone 

Forever from the room, perhaps that 
chair, 

Stirred by your movement, rocked a little 
while, 

Silently to and f ro ********** 


83 


And here are the last words your fingers 
wrote, 

Scrawled in broad characters across a 
page 

In this brown book I gave you. Here 
your hand, 

Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and 
down. 

Here with a looping knot you crossed a 
“t”, 

And here another like it, just beyond 

These two eccentric ‘Vs”. You were 
so small, 

And wrote so brave a hand! 

How strange it seems 

That of all words these are the words 
you chose! 

And yet a simple choice; you did not 
know 

You would not write again. If you had 
known — 

But then, it does not matter, — and in- 
deed, 

If you had known there was so little time 

You would have dropped your pen and 
come to me, 


84 


And this page would be empty, and some 
phrase 

Other than this would hold my wonder 
now. 

Yet, since you could not know, and it 
befell 

That these are the last words your fingers 
wrote, 

There is a dignity some might not see 

In this, “I picked the first sweet-pea to- 
day.” 

To-day! Was there an opening bud be- 
side it 

You left until tomorrow? — 0, my love, 

The things that withered, — and you came 
not back! 

That day you filled the circle of my arms 

That now is empty. (0, my empty life!) 

That day — that day you picked the first 
sweet-pea, — 

And brought it in to show me! I recall 

With terrible distinctness how the smell 

Of your cool gardens drifted in with you. 

I know, you held it up for me to see 


85 


And flushed because I looked not at the 
flower 

But at your face; and when behind my 
look 

You saw such unmistakable intent. 

You laughed and brushed your flower 
against my lips. 

(You were the fairest thing God ever 
made, 

1 think.) And then your hands above 
my heart 

Drew down its stem into a fastening, 

And while your head was bent I kissed 
your hair. 


I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands! 
Somehow I cannot seem to see them 
still. 

Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust 
In your bright hair.) What is the need 
of Heaven 

When earth can be so sweet? — If only 
God 

Had let us love, — and show the world the 
way! 


86 


Strange cancelings must ink the eternal 
books 

When love-crossed-out will bring the 
answer right! 

That first sweet pea! I wonder where it 
is. 

It seems to me I laid it down somewhere, 

And yet, — I am not sure. I am not sure, 

Even, if it was white or pink; for then 

’Twas much like any other flower to me, 

Save that it was the first. I did not 
know, 

Then, that it was the last. If I had 
known — 

But then it does not matter. Strange 
how few, 

After all’s said and done, the things that 
are 

Of moment. 

Few indeed! When I can make 

Of ten small words a rope to hang the 
world! 

“I had you and I have you now no more.” 


87 


There, there it dangles, — where’s the 
little truth 

That can for long keep footing under 
that 

When its slack syllables tighten to a 
thought? 

Here, let me write it down! I wish to 
see 

Just how a thing like that will look on 
paper! 

“/ had you and I have you now no more” 

0, little words, how can you run so 
straight 

Across the page, beneath the weight you 
bear? 

How can you fall apart, whom such a 
theme 

Has bound together, and hereafter aid 

In trivial expression that have been 

So hideously dignified? — Would God 

That tearing you apart would tear the 
thread 


I strung you on! Would God — 0, God, 
my mind 

Stretches asunder on this merciless rack 

Of imagery! 0, let me sleep awhile! 

Would I could sleep, and wake to find me 
back 

In that sweet summer afternoon with 
you. 

Summer? Tis summer still by the calen- 
dar! 

How easily could God, if he so willed, 

Set back the world a little turn or two! 

Correct its griefs, and bring its joys 
again! 

We were so wholly one I had not thought 

That we could die apart. I had not 
thought 

That I could move, — and you be stiff and 
still! 

That I could speak, — and you perforce 
be dumb! 

I think our heart-strings were, like warp 
and woof 

In some firm fabric, woven in and out; 


89 


Your golden filaments in fair design 

Across my duller fibre. And today 

The shining strip is rent; the exquisite 

Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your 
heart 

Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies 
chilled 

In the damp earth with you. I have been 
torn 

In two, and suffer for the rest of me. 

What is my life to me? And what am I 

To life, — a ship whose star has guttered 
out? 

A Fear that in the deep night starts awake 

Perpetually, to find its senses strained 

Against the taut strings of the quivering 
air, 

Awaiting the return of some dread chord? 

Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor; 

All else were contrast, — save that con- 
trast’s wall 

Is down, and all opposed things flow to- 
gether 


90 


Into a vast monotony; where night 

And day, and frost and thaw, and death 
and life, 

Are synonyms. What now — what now 
to me 

Are all the jabbering birds and foolish 
flowers 

That clutter up the world? You were 
my song! 

Now, now let discord scream! You were 
my flower! 

Now let the world grow weeds! For I 
shall not 

Plant things above your grave; (the com- 
mon balm 

Of the conventional woe for its own 
wound!) 

Amid sensations rendered negative 

By your elimination stands to-day, 

Certain, unmixed, the element of grief; 

I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth 

With travesties of suffering, nor seek 

To effigy its incorporeal bulk 

In little wry-faced images of woe. 

I cannot call you back; and I desire 
91 


No utterance of my material voice. 

I cannot even turn my face this way 

Or that, and say, “My face is turned to 
you;’’ 

I know not where you are, I do not know 

If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute, 

Body and soul, you into earth again; 

But this I know: — not for one second’s 
space 

Shall I insult my sight with visionings 

Such as the credulous crowd so eager- 
eyed 

Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air. 

Let the world wail! Let drip its easy 
tears! 

My sorrow shall be dumb! 

What do I say? 

God! God! — God pity me! Am I gone mad 

That I should spit upon a rosary? 

Am I become so shrunken? Would to 
God 

I too might feel that frenzied faith whose 
touch 

Makes temporal the most enduring grief; 

Tho’ it must walk a while, as is its wont, 


92 


With wild lamenting! Would I too might 
weep 

Where weeps the world and hangs its 
piteous wreaths 

For its new dead! Not Truth, but Faith, 
it is 

That keeps the world alive. If all at 
once 

Faith were to slacken, — that unconscious 
faith 

Which must, I know, yet be the corner- 
stone 

Of all believing — , birds now flying fearless 

Across would drop in terror to the earth; 

Fishes would drown; and the all-govern- 
ing reins 

Would tangle in the frantic hands of God 

And the worlds gallop headlong to des- 
truction! 

0, God I see it now,, and my sick brain 

Staggers and swoons! How often over me 

Flashes this breathlessness of sudden 
sight 

In which I see the universe unrolled 


93 


Before me like a scroll and read thereon 
Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets 
whirl 

Dizzily round and round and round and 
round, 

Like tops across a table, gathering speed 
With every spin, to waver on the edge 
One instant — looking over — and the next 
To shudder and lurch forward out of 
sight — 

******** 

Ah, I am worn out — I am wearied out — 
It is too much — I am but flesh and blood, 
And I must sleep. Tho’ you were dead 
again, 

I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1917 . 


94 


SWING IN THE SWING 


Swing in the swing and imagine, 

Swing in the swing and suppose, 

‘Magine if I was a lady 
Havin’ a train to my clothes, 

I’d never stop eating candy, 

I’d never go up to bed, 

And when they talked about secrets 
I wouldn’t be sent on ahead. 

Swing in the swing and imagine, 

Swing in the swing and p’tend, 

Swing in the swing and whoop-ti-oh — 
Jump to the ground in the end. 

Vivian Gurney, 1915 . 


95 


THE APPRENTICE 


The devil take these foolish meek mad- 
onnas — 

Their simpering smiles! Pray look at 
this one now 

There, grinning in the darkness, on her 
brow 

The crown of heaven, and that silly face 

Such as the people like to see, the fools! 

Gemma who sells the flowers on the bridge 

And those girls washing linen in the pools 

Have more of life, of beauty, of true grace, 

Well fit to be God’s mother. Andrea 

Knows how to please the populace. I 
hear 

Him bargaining “Mother and Child, so 
much 

And so much added for each saint “ — he’s 
dear — 

It’s just like selling cloth. Passion of 
God! 

To sell your soul by the square foot! and 
yet 


It would not be so hard could I forget 

That damned soft smile on angel, saint 
and queen; 

If I could bring in Gemma for an hour 

And sing to her the song I learned last 
night, 

And while she laughed out loud, had I 
the power, 

I’d paint her in, large- mouthed, and 
strong and keen 

If not as Mary, at least, Magdalene. 

Elizabeth JaneCoaisworth, 1915 . 


97 


CHANSON 


My melody at first was slow and round: 

Then, breaking too much sweetness, a 
great chord 

Crashed out, swept up, and all its color 
poured 

Into a slender, dwindling, minor sound, 

That rippled into froth. Again the quiet 
roll 

Of steady notes that surged into a crest 

Hung, dropped, and melted with the rest 

Into an end that sang within the soul. 

I laughed aloud, for eagle-winged and 
bright 

I’d sent you flashing through my mighty 
song. 

I played it to my friends. They waited 
long, 

Then called it “pretty” ah! the 

night 

That chilled me, struck my senses numb, 

And made my song of you, forever — dumb. 

Katharine Schcrmerhorn Oliver, 1915 . 


THE DRAGON LAMP 


That night we talked across a table’s 
space, 

And with a tale of knight and nun I 
sought 

To please you. “These pale broideries,” 
I thought, 

“This quaint, sweet, measured story will 
efface 

Her restlessness.” Meanwhile with list- 
less grace 

Of curving wrist and cool white hand, you 
wrought 

Havoc amid the lamp’s red fringe; you 
caught 

The sinuous dragon pattern on the base, 

With drooping glance retraced it. Once, 
forgetting 

My silver tale a breathless instant, letting 

Your widening eyes sink through the 
morphean maze 


99 


To where in dim, deep bronze your own 
tense gaze 

Answered, you shrank back from the glow 
afraid. 

“The nun can’t have been young,” you 
softly said. 

Louise Hunting Seaman, 1915 . 


100 


LONDON CHIMNEY POTS 


London, London chimney pots, 

In the twilight sky, 

Rows and rows of chimney pots 
To mark the houses by. 

Pleasant London chimney pots 
Looking down at me, 

Can you smell the jasmine 
By my apple tree? 

Can you hear the children sing 
T’other side my hedge, 

Singing to the baby moon 
Showing one white edge, 

“Hokey pokey starlight 
Round the moon you go” — 
London, London chimney pots, 

Is’t a song you know? 

Vivian Gurney, 1915 . 


101 


MAN MENDING A PIPE 


The lowbrowed tunnel is baking black 
With a grimy blackness that smears his 
face, 

And dries his nose with its blasting stench, 
And pushes his eye-balls out of their 
place; 

All in the gulp of a breath. 

He drinks it down till this dusty death 
Is the native life of his dusty lungs. 

The thin blood pounds in his crowded 
head, 

Or the hot steam batters against the 
bungs; 

It’s all the same in the choking dark. 

The spot-light cleaves a finger-mark 
And wavers against the retreating night. 
The steam pipes and their shadows crawl, 
Little and big, against the wall, 

From the roughcast ceiling spiders fall, 
And pale bugs scuttle out of the light. 

He crouches onward a weary space, 


102 


Searches and finds the broken pipe. 

His hot eyes strain on the tiny crack, 

The darkness presses against his back, 
Eternity hangs between the clack 
Of one steam-pipe and the next. 

Low and dusty and close and flat, 

The tunnel stifles him in its gripe. 

He shares its life with his brother the rat — 
His work of the world in a broken pipe. 

Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 . 


103 


LOVE SONG 


There are some things too wonderful to 
tell ; 

Sunset, red-gold, across a waveless sea; 

’Twixt pool and pool a glen-stream’s 
revelry; 

The morning star’s pale fire and breath- 
less spell; 

And so I cannot say how wonderful you 
are. 

There are some things too beautiful to 
know; 

The silver song the shimmering planets 
sing; 

What the tall bending birch is whisper- 
ing; 

How sunlight kisses the shy buds a-blow. 

So I can only guess your beauty from 
afar! 

Carolyn Crosby Wilson , 1917 . 


104 


CIRCE 


He stood before her tall and very strong. 

The swine and tigers crouched about her 
feet 

And licked them. 

His glance upon her was indifferent, 

Whereat her gray eyes blazed with sud- 
den joy, 

Eager she stretched her arms out, radiant, 

Her mouth grown sweet and tender, all 
her form 

Trembling with hope. Her very smile 
rejoiced, 

Then quivered at his kindled look. 

E’er he had reached the spot where yet 
she stood 

Her joy had smouldered out. 

“Your eyes are like a beast’s,” young 
Circe said. 

Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 . 


105 


THE LOVER 


Ah yes 
My dearest, 

How well I guess 
That your slim soul 
Reaches out shyly 
Toward that same goal 
Whence mine has fled. 

I panted to the heights and found that 
there 

Though brave my aim, my soul 
Eternity without you did not dare. 

Well, we are here together, just for once. 
Your eyes brush past me straining to the 
height, 

While I who won and lost because of you, 
Powerless watch you pass. 

I scorn your purity, 

Your eager zeal. 

I long to feel 
Life surge about me, 


106 


Not forget, 

As you forget me here. 

You are a holy fool. 

And yet I love you. 

Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 . 
Katharine Schermerhorn Oliver , 1915 . 


107 


REBELLION 


Always when Absalom returned at night, 

Tired from hunting, yet adventure-filled, 

’Twas Michal met him in the darkened 
court, 

Gave him his wine and listened to his 
tales. 

Seldom looked she at him from lowered 
lids 

But slow spoke words of praise he learned 
to love. 

When at bright noon he wandered in the 
groves 

Or lay in meditation ’neath a tree 

Michal would chance to meet him as she 
walked — 

Michal, the queen, daughter of Saul was 
she. 

David, the king, never beheld her face 

Since she rebuked him; yet she never 
wept 

For that she lived a widow while a wife — 


108 


She never spoke of those her five young 
sons 

Whom David gave to death, nor of her 
house 

Whose very name was seldom on men’s 
lips 

So it had fallen before David’s power — 

Instead, 

She listened to the tales of David’s son, 

Her white face near his eager beauteous- 
ness — 

Or told him he was fair that he was 
strong, 

The people loved him more than the 
King’s self, 

It was a grief to her he was not heir. 

And while she spoke with lips that scarce- 
ly moved, 

Her eyes kept watch of him ’neath lower- 
ed lids. 

Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth, 1915 . 


109 


CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN 

{In imitation of the poems of Egan O’Rahilly) 


When the yellow sun set on the hill 
And the mist crept up from the meadow 
Did you see the Lady Cathleen, 

As you came from the west, from the 
moorland? 

It was close by the wind-swept dune, 

At sunset I saw her. 

Fair is she, fair among maidens. 

The red of her hair is the color 
Of willows when comes the March wind, 
Bringing Spring in her bosom. 

Her eyes, ah who can describe them 
Save one who has seen in the dark fairy 
well of Killaha 

Heaven reflected, a flame in still water? 
When she smiled my heart sang with 
delight; 

When she weeps — ah then I die for her. 

Miriam 5 . Wright, 1918 . 


110 


THE DEFIANCE OF LILITH 


Swift searched they the universe, track- 
ing down Lilith — 

Sennoi, Sansennoi and Sammargeloph, 

God-sent and terrible, bright-winged with 
fire 

Searched they for Lilith who dared defy 
Godhead, 

Utter Shem-hamphorash, Dread Name 
of Names, 

And, armed with might by that word un- 
speakable 

Scorned great Jehovah, cursed Adam’s 
seed — 

Adam who hated her, loved her, and 
fawned to her — 

Then disappeared from the eyes of the 
Lord. 

Fearing her power, remembering her 
beauty, 

The strong fierce will of her, turned they 
from Eden 

111 


Left Adam smiling, Eve close beside 
him — 

Through the three worlds searched they 
for Lilith, 

Sennoi, Sansennoi and Sammargeloph. 

Elizabeth Jane Coalsworth , 1915 . 


112 


AUTUMN 

Spring, teasing cumbrous Winter from 
her place, 

First charms me with her ever changing 
face, 

Now with a tear, yet oftener with a smile 

She doth beguile 

My dancing feet 

Into some pleasant, blossom-bo wered re- 
treat. 

And yet, when lazy, lavish Summer lies 

And smiles upon me through her half- 
closed eyes, 

Smiles welcome to her wide, reclining 
fields, 

Then my heart yields 

To her sly wooing, 

And drowsy minstrels shrill my sweet 
undoing. 

Until, one day, I catch the sudden flare 

Of glorious Autumn’s wind-blown, flam- 
ing hair. 


113 


Her swift step stirs the rustling leaves, 
and then 

I meet again 

The wishful glow 

Of steady, azure eyes; and straightway 
go 

Into glad arms, outstretched, yet wearied 
not 

With long desire, and only half forgot. 

Then Spring and Summer child and wan- 
ton are, 

And Autumn my true love returned from 
afar. 

Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 . 


114 


THE DREAMER 


I ride on the riotous clouds of dawn 
And the roughened waves of the sea. 

I know how the horns of the moon are 
made 

And the grey crag’s mystery. 

Borne aloft by the whirlwind’s rage 
I rush through eternity. 

Elsie Lanier , 1918 . 


115 


Puer quis ex aula capillis 
Ad cyathum statuetur unctis , 

Doctus sagittas tendere Sericas 
Arcu pater no 

Horace C. I. 29. 

Sometimes while passing round the fra- 
grant wine 

Fierce memory strikes. Quivering, he 
stands erect, 

Longing to tear aside the tunic soft, 

Fling on instead the roughened tiger 
skin, 

To dash the marble cup upon the ground, 

And free, to force a way to Seric plains — 

But stifling breath of many-petalled rose 

Envelops him. He droops, until he meets 

The narrow smile of some dark Latin 
girl, 

Onward he glides, off’ring with servile 
grace 

Pomegranates, grapes, and sweet Faler- 
fti&n. Agnes Rogers, 1916. 


116 


PROLOGUE 


( From the Pageant of Athena. Written and presented 
by the Students of Vassar College at their Fiftieth 
Anniversary Exercises , October , 1915.) 

Athena speaks ; 

Bright in the skein of time gleam many 
strands, 

Endlessly varied. I have chosen those 

Of flame, of fire, of rich luxuriant gold, 

And those whose beauty lies in their clear 
strength. 

My will it is to weave them, strand on 
strand, 

Tracing the course of learning through 
the years 

In one close wrought design. All those 
who come 

Shall pause before this fabric, ages old, 

Shaped by past lives in symmetry and 
truth, 


117 


And glorying in design so well begun, 
Themselves shall add thereto. And this 
my web 

Shall weaving be forever, never done. 


118 


ALTA MATER 


What gifts ask we at thy fair hands? 

Thy love what grace imparts? 

The will to dare, the hand to do, 

Thy light within our hearts. 

High, Mother, is thy heart, 

As thy gray tower’s height. 

Strong, Mother, are thy hands, 

Thy torch burns ever bright. 

What gifts lay we at thy fair feet, 

Since we are greatly blest? 

Our strength, our hope, to bear thy light 
Undimmed from east to west. 

High, Mother, is thy heart, 

As thy gray tower’s height. 

Strong, Mother, are thy hands, 

Thy torch burns ever bright. 

Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 . 


119 


DAWN 


At the feet of his lady the moon 
Lies the night. 

Aquiver and breathless and bright, 

With the light 
Of her smile on his face, 

And the shadows her slim fingers trace. 

And now she is gone, and he lies 
Black browed and brooding and still; 

And over the hill 
From afar 

The clear morning star 
Burns but to set him a-thrill. 

But the night steals away 
Seeking his lady, and leaves the star, pal- 
ing, with day. 

Carolyn Crosby Wilson , 1917 . 


120 


THE SANDMAN 


He catches dust o* dreams to carry in his 
sack, 

The dust a falling star leaves shining 
in its track, 

He walks the milky-way, then down the 
dark-staired skies, 

His tinkling footsteps hush the world 
with lullabies. 

And when he reaches you, his fragrant 
gentle hands 

Fill deep your drowsy eyes with fairy 
golden sands. 

Helm Johnson, 1918 . 


121 


THE FAIRY RING 


The fairies* ring is up in the night sky 
Around the moon; 

And little moonbeams silently dance by 
In silver shoon. 

The star lamps glow, 

The wind sings low 
A lullaby, 

A fairy tune. 

But all the woodland people sigh 

For their lost happy ring, and long to fly 

To the white moon. 

Elizabeth Keller, 1916 


122 


ALONE 


Under the misty sky, low-hanging, gray, 

The hills stretched, dark and still in the 
half light; 

The wet air, scented like an April night 

With marshy sweetness, on our parched 
lips lay — 

Unbroken silence save for the light stir 

Of dry, dead grass, 

And once, along the forest edge, the whir 

Of a gray partridge startled into flight — 

I felt the quiet pass 

Like balm into my heart. For grief that 
burned 

But yesterday, in the mad land of human 
ills, 

Here was no place. 

Instinctively I turned 

To you — and found you staring at the 
hills 

And saw the fierce world-hunger in your 
face. 

Charlotte Van de Water, 1917 . 

123 


ROAD SONG 


“Seek, seek, but not to find! 

Know the lonely heart of the wind, 

The rim of the hills with the stars behind, 
And the roads of all the world.” 

The wind has a home behind the moon, 
The little stars sleep in the glare of noon. 
I walk alone and my heart is blind, 

On the roads of all the world. 

Elizabeth Mason Heath, 1916 . 


124 


CONFIDANTE 


I, who walk in the dark, 

Alone beyond all knowing, 

Must watch to-night 
Glad, sheltered light 
In strangers* windows glowing. 

Unto me, hungering 
With unfulfilled desires, 

The keen wind brings 
Warm scent of things 
That brew by strangers' fires. 

I find my darkened house, 

Silent and all alone, 

And my sup of bread, 

That is dry and dead, 

And no candle but my own. 

Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 . 


125 


THE SUICIDE 


“Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no 
more! 

Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat 
my body sore! 

And all for a pledge that was not pledged 
by me 

I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparing- 

ly 

That I might eat again, and met thy 
sneers 

With deprecations, and thy blows with 
tears, — 

Aye, from thy glutted lash, glad, crawl- 
ed away, 

As if spent passion were a holiday! 

And now I go. Nor threat, nor easy 
vow 

Of tardy kindness can avail thee now 

With me, whence fear and faith alike 
are flown; 

Lonely I came, and I depart alone, 


126 


And know not where nor unto whom I 
go; 

But that thou canst not follow me I 
know.” 

Thus I to Life, and ceased; but through 
my brain 

My thought ran still, until I spake again; 

“Ah, but I go not as I came, — no trace 

Is mine to bear away of that old grace 

I brought! I have been heated in thy 
fires, 

Bent by thy hands, fashioned to thy 
desires, 

Thy mark is on me! I am not the same 

Nor ever more shall be, as when I came. 

Ashes am I of all that once I seemed. 

In me all’s sunk that leapt, and all that 
dreamed 

Is wakeful for alarm, — oh, shame to thee, 

For the ill change that thou hast wrought 
in me, 

Who laugh no more nor lift my throat 
to sing! 


127 


Ah, Life, I would have been a happy 
thing 

To have about the house when I was 
grown 

If thou hadst left my little joys alone! 

I asked of thee no favor, save this one; 

That thou wouldst leave me playing in 
the sun! 

And this thou didst deny, calling my 
name 

Insistently, until I rose and came. 

I saw the sun no more. * * * *It were 
not well 

So long on these unpleasant thoughts 
to dwell, 

Need I arise tomorrow and renew 

Again my hated tasks, but I am through 

With all things save my thoughts and 
this one night, 

So that in truth I seem already cjuite 

Free and remote from thee, — I feel no 
haste 

And no reluctance to depart; I taste, 

Merely, with thoughtful mien, an un- 
known draught, 


128 


That in a little while I shall have quaff- 
ed.” 

Thus I to Life, and ceased, and slightly 
smiled, 

Looking at nothing! and my thin dreams 
filed 

Before me one by one till once again 

I set new words unto an old refrain: 

“Treasures thou hast that never have 
been mine! 

Warm lights in many a secret chamber 
shine 

Of thy gaunt house, and gusts of song 
have blown 

Like blossoms out to me that sat alone! 

And I have waited well for thee to show 

If any share were mine, — and now I go! 

Nothing I leave, and if I naught attain 

I shall but come into mine own again!” 

Thus I to Life, and ceased, and spake 
no more, 

But, turning, straightway sought a cer- 
tain door 

In the rear wall. Heavy it was, and low 


129 


And dark, — a way by which none e’er 
would go 

That other exit had, and never knock 

Was heard thereat, — bearing a curious 
lock 

Some chance had shown me fashioned 
fcultily, 

Whereof Life held, content, the useless 
key, 

And great coarse hinges, thick and rough 
with rust, 

Whose sudden voice across a silence 
must, 

I knew, be harsh and horrible to hear, — 

A strange door, ugly like a dwarf. 

So near 

I came I felt upon my feet the chill 

Of a dread wind creeping across the sill. 

So stood longtime, till over me at last 

Came weariness, and all things other 
passed 

To make it room; the still night drifted 
deep 

Like snow about me, and I longed for 
sleep. 


130 


But suddenly, marking the morning 
hour, 

Bayed the deep-throated bell within 
the tower! 

Startled, I raised my head, — and with 
a shout 

Laid hold upon the latch, — and was 
without. 

******** 

Ah, long-forgotten, well-remembered 
road. 

Leading me back unto my old abode, 

My father’s house! There in the night 
1 came, 

And found them feasting, and all things 
the same 

As they had been before. A splendor 
hung 

Upon the walls, and such sweet songs 
were sung 

As, echoing out of very long ago, 

Had called me from the house of Life, 
I know. 

So fair their raiment shone I looked in 
shame 


131 


On the unlovely garb in which I came! 

Then straightway at my hesitancy mock- 
ed: 

“It is my father’s house!” I said, and 
knocked; 

And the door opened. To the shining 
crowd, 

Tattered and dark I entered, like a cloud, 

Seeing no face but his; to him I crept. 

And “Father!” I cried, and clasped his 
knees, and wept. 

Ah, days of joy that followed! All alone 

I wandered through the house. My 
own, my own, 

My own to touch, my own to taste and 
smell, 

All I had lacked so long and loved so 
well! 

None shook me out of sleep, none hush- 
ed my song, 

None called me in from the sunlight all 

day long. 

I know not when the wonder came to me 

Of what my father’s business might be, 
132 


And whither fared and on what errands 
bent 

The tall and gracious messengers he 
sent. 

Yet one day with no song from dawn till 
night 

Wondering 1 sat and watched them out 
of sight. 

And the next day I called; and on the 
third 

Asked them if I might go, — but no one 
heard. 

Then, sick with longing, I arose at last 

And went unto my father, — in that vast 

Chamber wherein he for so many years 

Has sat, surrounded by his charts and 
spheres. 

“Father/’ I said, “Father, 1 cannot play 

The harp that thou didst give me; and 
all day 

I sit in idleness, while to and fro 

About me thy serene, grave servants go; 

And I am weary of my lonely ease. 

Better a perilous journey overseas 


133 


Away from thee, than this, the life I 
lead, 

To sit all day in the sunshine like a weed 

That grows to naught, — I love thee 
more than they 

Who serve thee most; yet serve thee in 
no way. 

Father, I beg of thee a little task 

To dignify my days, — ’tis all I ask 

Forever, but forever, this denied, 

I perish.” 

“Child,” my father’s voice replied, 
“All things thy fancy hath desired of me 

Thou hast received. I have prepared 
for thee 

Within my house a spacious chamber, 
where 

Are delicate things to handle and to 
wear, 

And all these things are thine. Dost 
thou love song? 

My minstrels shall attend thee all day 
long. 

Or sigh for flowers? My fairest gar- 
dens stand 


134 


Open as fields to thee on every hand. 

And all thy days this word shall hold 
the same: 

No pleasure shalt thou lack that thou 
shalt name. 

But as for tasks” — he smiled, and shook 
his head: 

“Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by,” 
he said. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay , 1917 . 


135 


AN ETCHING 


A grey ship sails into a misty sky. 

Grey sea gulls tipped with white go circl- 
ing by. 

Oh, ship! so like my life you seem to me, 
Grey life against a grey eternity. 

Oh, sea gulls! like the years you circling 

fly. 

Grey years white tipped with dreams 
that soar so high. 

Oh, ship, that you might rest against the 
sky 

While sea gulls tipped with white go circl- 
ing by! 

Elsie Lanier, 1918 . 


136 


ATTAINMENT 


To reach the top you strove; 

You only saw brown earth that backward 
swept 

Beneath your feet; 

Above — beyond — the slim path dodged 
and leapt, 

Than you a thousand times more fleet, 

To lose itself in yon high-clinging grove. 

High up, a mountain spring 

Tossed its clear crystal freely down to you, 

With silken shiver, 

Shattered on every jagged rock anew, 

You only said, “Ah, here’s a river; 

I’ll quench my thirst; ’twill aid my labor- 
ing.” 

A free wind from the crown 

Of other distant hills swept by and stir- 
red 

The waiting trees; 


137 


With pleasant quivers of surprise they 
heard 

That you were near; you said, “The 
breeze 

Is good for climbing. Hope it won’t die 
down.” 

Why, when the day was cool 

On some poised cliff could you not pause, 
and there 

With grateful eye 

Scan the walled reaches of the valley fair; 

Or see unfathomable sky 

Gaze back from an unfathomed mountain 
pool? 

Thought you through pressing clouds the 
open sky to gain? 

Drenched is the summit with close mists 
and sleet-sharp rain! 

Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 . 


138 


WIND RHYTHM 


The moonlight glimmers in a pale green 
film on the frozen creek and the snow- 
covered hill beyond. Along the creek 
stand slender trees, their bare branches 
dark against the thinly-clouded, violet 
sky. Fine black twigs quiver across the 
mist-blurred moon. The wind rises in 
the heavy firs that droop their branches 
on the hill; 

“Sound and swell, 

Sound and swell, 

Rocking slow, rocking slow.” 

It reaches the slender trees; 

“Swirl and sway, 

Swirl and sway, 

Bending low, bending low.” 

Now the little twigs are caught by the 
wind; 

“Falter and fling, 

Falter and fling, 

Wildly blow, wildly blow.” 

Elizabeth Mary Hinc\s, 1917 . 


UNSEEN 


In the blind darkness of unlit rooms 
I was groping, 

My curious finger-tips seeking elusive 
things. 

When a touch like the breath of a violet 
Brushed me — and was gone. 

The myst’ry of delicate moth-wings held 
me 

In thrall. 

Hope whispered to me of the open path 
to the dream-world, 

Of wee sylphs in petal-soft dress. 

I waited — 

Then tenderly sought 

In the silence, scarce breathing my prayer 

For that dream-caress. 

Once more it trembled near me — 


140 


The spell of all enchanted things was just 
beyond my finger-tips. 

Softly I crushed it to hold forever 
— A narcissus, frail-petalled and dead. 

Bee W. Hosier , 1917 . 


141 


MID-WINTER 


If I were God, I’d mould hills rolling low. 

Smooth them and shape them, sift them 
deep with snow, 

And scatter them with furze that they 
might lie 

Softly against the wide, deep-tinted sky. 

In slow caress my forming hand would 
linger, 

Then a swift finger, 

Down some long slope, half carelessly 
would break 

A jagged course for melting snows to 
take. 

The out-scooped valley’s length they’d 
run and then’ 

Skirting new hills, go slipping out of ken. 

And distanced far, a low-hung sun I’d 
light, 

And paint blue shadows on the rose- 
touched white 


142 


Then, wearied, put aside my colors and 
my clay, 

And fashion paradise and man on some 
less perfect day. 

Carolyn Crosby Wilson, 1917 . 


143 




AT RANDOM 
(A Department of Nonsense) 




DRESS A LA CARTE 


’Tis Friday night, but customs change, 
How college doth progress! 

And so though pie is on the plate 
I wear my ice cream dress! 


147 


NOTHING AT ALL 


She was a tall and goodly Senior, 

I was an innocent Freshman small, 

I met her one night in the Ethics alcove, 
That was all. 

She was a spectacled Greek professor, 

I was an innocent freshman small, 

I asked in the hall, “Do you do our sweep- 
ing?” 

That was all. 

He was a gas-man, pleasantly smiling, 

I was an innocent freshman small, 

I only asked him to change my schedule, 
That was all. 

It was a beautiful senior parlor, 

I was an innocent freshman small. 

It looked so nice I stepped inside it, 

That was all. 


143 


Then why do they laugh and point the 
finger 

At me, an innocent freshman small? 
I’m only asking for information, 

That is all. 

F. L. McK. t 1898 . 


149 


LAMENT 


The Vassar student well displays 
Her slothful disposition 
She twines about the classroom chairs 
In serpentine position. 

In Sunday Evening Music, too, 

She finds it much more pleasing 
To lie recumbent on the seat, 

Her weary soul thus easing. 

In such wild ways she will persist, 

It tears my soul asunder; 

Do you suppose she thinks it’s nice ? 

I wonder, oh, I wonder — 

K. r.. 1910. 


150 


IRONY 


I thought that it was fit 
For me to study up a bit 

On the Ec. conditions of the working 
class; 

But just lately I have learned 
That my study must be turned 

To an Ec. condition of my own, alas! 


151 


THE LEADING MAN 


“Oh isn’t the leading man good? 

Her voice — ” “And his gestures, my dear. 
He is more like herself when he smiles, 
But doesn’t her moustache look queer?’’ 
“He is only pretending to smoke; 

Those puffs — ’’ “Come from her powder- 
can. 

And when she makes love to the girl,’’ 
“She is the most wonderful man!’’ 

1. U., 1910 . 


152 


MY SOUL 


My soul is like an alley cat 
Long, mangy, lank and thin; 

It never feeds on porterhouse 
But from the garbage tin. 

0 Thou, who feedest hungry souls 
And seek’st to make them fat, 

1 pray that Thou mayst make my soul 
A house — not alley-cat. 

Then may it, sleeping, purr alway, 

Calm in its sleek rotundity, 

A boul’vard soul, and boul’vard fed, 

A perfect soul, the soul of me! 

R. P. L„ 1913 . 


153 


SONNET TO A HAIRPIN 


Implement of beauty and of use! 

Female Adorner! At such waste I frown- 
ed 

When first I saw thee broken on the 
ground, 

Dropped by some “libe” ward maid; 
with tresses loose 

Onward she fled and murmured low, “The 
Deuce”. 

In thousands since, the pretty shell Tve 
found, 

In millions, meeker ones in wire gowned, 

Oh stay of locks! How great is thy abuse! 


Yet some who shed thee most have learned 
in he. 

(Or other class) that use is one great 
force 

And beauty t’other, to keep life’s craft 
afloat. 


154 


These lost and gone, the ship is like to 
leak. 

But careless, thee they drop along their 
course, 

Knowing thy gifts. And yet they wish 
the vote! 

M. M., 1915 . 


155 


A PSYCHOLOGICAL DISILLUSION 


They said it was a “cinchy”, three lectures 
a week 

And nothing she’d tell you was new — 

The quizzes were easy, and in the half- 
year 

There were only three topics to do. 

So I signed for the stuff with a smile on 
my face, 

In college such joy rides are few. 

And the first weeks slipped by, while I 
worked not at all 
I had only three topics to do. 

Then came round a week-end I meant to 
begin, 

But I found I’d a theme overdue, 

A tea and a lecture; my worry was small 
With only three topics to do. 

A trip to New York, a Hall Play, a guest, 

My conscience began to pursue 


156 


And poison my mind with the ghost of the 
thought 

There were still those three topics to do. 

Though I’ve worked like a Trojan to find 
some spare time, 

In a week the semester is through — 

And with all my reviewing and several 
long themes 

I’ve still those three topics to do. 

H. E. B., 1917 . 


15 ? 


THE BALLAD OF BAD ’BACCY 


Where Market and the Main Street meet 
In U. C. S. shop quite replete 
With every sort of smoky treat, 

I’m working. 

One day there came a maiden sweet 
On neat and hesitating feet, 

And her remarks I now repeat 
Sans shirking. 

“I want” said she, “kind sir, to get 
A mild but mellow cigarette 
That’s pleasant for to smell, and yet 
Has pep.” 

Whereat I did proceed to slip 
Her scented things with golden tip 
And winked, as who would say, quite flip, 
“I’m hep.” 

Her look would make your heart to bleed, 
“I do not smoke the filthy weed,” 

Said she, “I will explain my need 
Of nicotine. 


158 


For in my dormitory cellar 

There lives and smokes a wretched fellar, 

A silent subterranean dweller, 

Who’s never seen. 

“And through my register a fume 
Each morning floods my sitting-room, 
And wraps me close in smoke and gloom 
All day. 

And if from morn till eve I choke, 

And folks all think ’tis I who smoke 
I’m going to choose the brand — or croak, 
I say!” 

Said I, “Fatimas or Pell Mell 
Are famous for their pleasant smell 
But I’ve a plan that works as well — 
Retire him! 

Go to the folks the help that hire, 

And with this motto raise their ire, 

‘There is no smoke without a fire — 

So fire him!”’ 

C. C. W., 1917. 


159 


PISCIS VASSARIAE 


Ent’ring the dining room in doubt, 

And gazing hopefully about, 

On every hand I hear a shout, 

“I pass!” ‘By me!” and “One without!’ 

Seeking my place I quickly feel 
A touch upon my arm. I wheel. 

A stranger queries at my heel 

“Do they play bridge at every meal? 

A gentle guest — I would not sass her- 
For I was once as simple as her. 

And so, I murmur as 1 pass her — 

“It is the day for fish at Vassar.” 

C. C. W. t 1917. 


160 


FLUNCTURE 


Once ’twas an oyster gaunt and pallid 
Enmeshed in coils of macaroni; 

And once it was a salmon sallid; 

And once ’twas fish both strong and boni. 

And once the heat came on at noon; 

And once it never came at all; 

And once it waned, as wanes the moon, 
When Fahrenheit began to fall. 

And once I flunked me flat in Ethics; 

And once I flunked in Mathematics. 


Who was it flunked in Dietetics? 

Who was it flunked in Thermostatics? 

C. C. W., 1917. 


161 


THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 


The first bell rang at dawn of day; 

The air was chill, the sky was grey; 

I would have slept. 

The bed was cozy where I lay, 

And my first class three hours away; 
Yet up I leapt. 

Into my roomy’s room I sped 
And slammed the window by her bed; 

In accents gay 

“Get up, it’s pancake day,” I said. 

She pulled the covers round her head — 
“We had them yesterday!” 

C. C. W., 1917. 


162 


WHY DID I EVER COME TO 
THIS PLACE? 

(An expedition in untrammelled verse ) 


Sometimes 

When the eight o'clock bell rings, 
And the maids, 

In a long, black, frantic line, 

Scurry from the dining-room 
Like rats 

From a doomed ship, 

(Nor will any of them catch my eye 
Though I have been waiting 
As patient as a farmer's wife 
Since dawn) 

I say to myself, 

Or to any who cares to listen, 

That college is a bore, 

And that woman’s place 
Is in the home. 

And again, 

When the chapel chimes, 


163 


Forgetting that it is TOWN SUNDAY, 
(Or uninformed) 

Ding, 

That is to say, “peal”, 

For quite some time, 

As blithe, 

And inexorable, 

And out of tune, 

As anybody else in a bath-tub, 

(Or as foolishly complacent 

As a football player 

Who runs in the wrong direction 

And scores a goal 

For the other side) 

I turn in bed, 

And glare at the plaster, which is scarred 
By generations of thumb-tacks, 

For whose insertion I, 

As guiltless 

As is a Freshman of knowledge, 

Do semi-annually 
Settle, 

And I say to myself, 

Or to the servant who comes in just then 
To empty the waste-basket, 


164 


That college 

Is the misapprehension 

Of a June-bug mind, 

And that woman’s place 
Is in the home. 

And always 

When with some youth, 

Whom I do not love, 

But might, 

In the proper environment, 

I have trudged for hours, 

Pointing out the Library 
And the Art Building, 

Over and over, 

(For the parlors 
Are full of parents, 

And five room-mates 

Are an insufficient chaperone) 

Always 

, I say to myself, 

Or to the night-watchman, 

Who does not care, 

That I wish I were happily married 
To a dyspeptic widower 


165 


With six small children, 

And that higher education for women 
Is as paradoxical a quantity 
As prohibition at election time, 

And that woman’s place 
Is in the home. 

E. St. V. M., 1917 . 


166 


PARTIALITY 


I don’t care much for water snakes and 
wiry centipedes, 

It seems to be a footless life the solemn 
fishworm leads, 

In fact, the crawling creatures that appeal 
to me are few — 

But I love the gentle Caterpillar, snuggl- 
ing in my shoe. 

The reason for this preference is very 
plainly shown, 

’Tis not for outside beauty, and his soul 
is little known, 

Still I love the Caterpillar — ’tis love re- 
turned, you see, 

Because the gentle creature is so very 
fond of me. 

For he scrambles up the instep of my foot, 
or in my hair, 

And if he wants to take a snooze, t’s 
always in my chair, 

167 


So I love the gentle Caterpillar dearly as 
can be — 

Were there but one in all the land, he’d 
surely crawl on me. 

M. A. P., 1905. 




168 


HUMANITY 


Tread lightly on the humble bug, 

Step gently on the worm, 

And dry their tears and calm their fears 
And soothe them when they squirm. 

L. 1907 . 


HUMILITY 

But should a big bug cross your path, 
Give place, with lowered eye. 

Let not a word from you be heard 
Till it has passed you by. 

E. B. D., 1909 . 


169 


BUG OF JUNE 


0 bug of June that comest still 

When blossomed verdure clothes the hill, 

To thee my warblings I indite, 

Proud monarch of the sultry night. 

The campus glowing in the noon 
Is not thy province, bug of June. 

Thou wait’st till in the dying day 
Allures thee forth the droplight’s ray. 

Thou buzzest in my private cup, 

My honey gives thee royal sup, 

Three room-mates lying in a swoon, 
Proclaim thy power, bug of June! 

Strong enough my filial loyalty 
To Alma Mater, yet for me 
The end cannot arrive too soon — 

With freedom from thee, bug of June! 

V. L. B., 1911 . 


170 


A VALENTINE 


If I were but a lovely worm 
Which had a graceful, wiggly tail, 

» My prepossessing, pretty squirm, 

To win your heart would never fail. 

I’d tie myself in knots for you, 

Or coyly wrinkle up my skin, 

Or stretch myself a foot or two 
As straight and slender as a pin. 

I’d let you bait your hook with me 

And gladly toss myself about 

’Til all the fishes in the sea 

Thought me the worm of worms, no doubt. 

But, if you held me in your hand, 

Still as the great stone sphinx I’d lie, 
Nor any greater joy demand 
Before I curled me up to die. 

M. H., 1912 . 


171 


THE CENTIPEDE 


Of all the terrors of the night that make 
one’s flesh to crawl 

The worst it is the centipede that walketh 
on the wall. 

Of all the dangers of the day that chill one 
to the core 

The worst it is the centipede that fleeth 
o’er floor. 

Of all the horrors of dawn and dusk that 
wring one on the rack 

The worst it is the centipede that crawleth 
from the crack. 

One finds him in one’s teacup, in one’s 
bathtub, and one’s bed, 

And he drops quick from the ceiling on 
one’s unsuspecting head, 

And his wiggly legs still wiggle after one 
has squashed him dead. 

He leaves a gooey brownish stain upon 
one’s smooth cream wall 

When his crawly self is blotted out and 
nevermore will crawl; 

172 


Ah, yes, alive or dead he is of known beasts 
worst of all! 

Sometimes when I am working in my 
chamber late at night 
And look up at my wall with murders 
spotted, by dim light 
Each deathplace seems to move and crawl 
— it is a ghastly sight. 

And far up near the ceiling where the gay 
mosquito hies 

Faint moving dots reveal themselves as 
spiders, moths, and flies, 

How deep I love their so few legs for this 
so sweet surprise. 

Perhaps the cause of centipedes in the 
great scheme of nature 
Is just to teach us heartfelt joy for every 
other creature. 

For of all the beasts in all the world that 
craze one’s soul with fear 
The worst is sure the centipede that is 
my roommate here. 

E. K., 1916 


173 


SPRING SONG 


Worms! How I hate them writhing in the 
rain 

On all the paths from Josselyn to Main! 

And how I hate the slimy way they feel, 

Cringing and crushed beneath a rubber 
heel! 

And how I hate the bloated way they 
squirm — 

See! There are twins and there is half a 
worm! 

C. C. W. t 1917. 


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